


Tales From the Goat Locker

by Jaeger Gipsy Danger (Carleen)



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, F/M, Finding a way to live in society, Master Chief Adventure, Master Chief Grieving, Master Chief Romance, Master Chief as Super Hero, Master Chief discovering friends, Rebirth, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23683456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carleen/pseuds/Jaeger%20Gipsy%20Danger
Summary: Welcome. This story sat in my Halo folder for at least...years. To get me writing again I present this first chapter of what will be a multi-story document. about different aspects of the Chief's life post-Cortana.  If you read my other Halo stories you'll know I enjoy writing about the Master Chief in what-if scenarios about what happens after the credits role or the duty day is finished. There is no doubt that you'll find some non-canon stuff here.
Relationships: Cortana/John-117 | Master Chief, Master Chief/Cortana, Master Chief/OC
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	Tales From the Goat Locker

AN: First, a couple of definitions to get out of the way. A crow's nest is a structure in the upper part of the main mast of a ship or a structure used as a lookout point. This position ensured the best view for lookouts to spot approaching hazards, other ships, or land. It was the best device for this purpose until the invention of radar. A bar on Coronado Island in San Diego, where I was stationed, had a Chiefs-only bar named The Crow's Nest.

In Navy jargon, the goat locker is a lounge, sleeping area, and galley on board a naval vessel reserved for the exclusive use of chief petty officers (E-7 thru E-9) by tradition, all other personnel, including officers and even the commanding officer, must request permission to enter the goat locker.

The term goat locker takes its origins from wooden ship sailing times when goats were kept aboard ship. The goat was used to consume nearly all forms of refuse and produce milk for the crew. The quarters for the goat were traditionally in the chief petty officer mess, which inherited the moniker' goat locker'. In modern times, the term represents any gathering place, on- or off-ship, where chief petty officers hold private functions.

* * *

How much longer was he expected to endure this? This effort to extend the hand of comfort and friendship, which had little to do with the reason he existed. Every muscle in his body coiled in rebellion. 

Accustomed to silence accompanied only with the sound of Cortana's voice, Master Chief Petty Officer Spartan 117 sat in the officer's mess with Commander Palmer and Captain Lasky and tried to hide his growing unease. He didn't belong here. He didn't understand comfort or friendship. Palmer and Lasky were doing their best to what he assumed must be to offer him comfort. This wasn't a substitute for training. There are habits and training, and there's indoctrination. 

A hand appeared on his forearm. He understood the gesture, but the soft touch of Commander Palmer's hand only served to increase his agitation. Her eyes widened when she noted the tremors rippling over his muscles.

"Don't leave us, Chief."

A gentle touch felt the tremors and tried to soothe them away. Like a man who must move or jump from his skin, Master Chief tossed back his fourth cup of coffee. He tried to hide his apprehension from Commander Palmer and Captain Lasky. But they stared at him as if they knew him. Why did they watch him as if expecting something? What? A breakdown or fit of rage? The fifth cup shattered in his hands, sending coffee and ceramic shards across the table. He didn't belong here; he didn't understand comfort or friendship. Palmer and Lasky were doing their best to what he assumed must be to offer him support. A shared meal, sympathetic glances, and the bold hand on his arm were not a substitute for what he'd been trained for. Friendship had little to do with the reason he existed. Every muscle in his body tensed. They didn't understand. Were incapable of understanding. This wasn't right.

When she exchanged a look with Captain Lasky, Master Chief jumped from his chair. Everyone in the mess hall looked up at the noise of the metal chair clattering against the wall. Air. He needed some air. Get away from these sympathetic smiles and attempts at the affection he neither understood nor craved. He managed a "ma'am and sir" before exiting the building, leaving the two officers staring after him.

~0~

Dressed in faded Navy dungarees and a black polo shirt, a soldier slumped in a chair too small for his frame with his long legs stretched out in front of him. Five nights in a row, the waitress watched this handsome giant drink one Guinness after another without getting drunk. Tonight she watched the man sitting alone at a corner table. He leaned back in his chair and tipped his glass only to discover that it's empty. He gestured for another. Only five meters away, the waitress rushed—nearly spilling the beer—to place a fresh pint of Guinness in front of him. Once she managed to release the glass, she granted him her best customer service smile. The kind of smile that came with many definitions. Usually, best to let the customer decide which one.

The first night he'd stepped through the entrance hesitantly and looked around, she nearly whistled and would have if all the air hadn't fled her lungs in a long sigh. Plenty of these UNSC sailors were good looking, but this handsome giant carried an aura of masculinity that weakened her knees. It'd been a long time since a man affected her that way. She met him at the door and escorted him to a table. The bartender would never let her live it down.

"What can I get you, sweetie? She'd asked and remembered clearly the hair stood up on her arms when he turned a pair of ocean-deep blue eyes on her and asked politely if he could have a beer.

She'd seen them all, of course. Handsome, dull, or arrogant. They were all the same to her. Usually, the men and women who made the rate of chief were pretty good at behaving. Keep the beer coming, and they were all the same. But this one? He called her ma'am. No one ever referred to her as ma'am. Ma'am was for officers, not waitresses. But damn if that hadn't been the sweetest thing she'd ever heard. That had been five nights ago, and she no longer felt shy around him. Shy? Her? No. Intimated, maybe. Tall and built like a brick shit-house, the man oozed charisma and strength. Most senior NCOs sported enough ego and bluster to pull off the rank. The funny thing was, he seemed utterly unaware of it. Watching him from her spot behind the bar, she decided to ask him a question or two. See how it went. Test the waters. She pulled a fresh pint of Guinness and headed over.

"Here you go. You've been in here every night this week. It takes time to drown a heartache. Been there, done that. What's her name?"

The waitress punctuated her question by snapping her gum. The cloying smell of her perfume pulled him to the present. Her name? Share _her_ name with a stranger? Say it aloud as if...as if. The strangeness of his environment and three beers had apparently and confusingly dropped his guard. He knew the waitress's name was Mary. Linda? Kelly? No. The only other women's names he knew for sure were Sarah Palmer, Kelly, Linda, and Doctor Katherine Halsey, of course.

"Sarah," he answered, tasting the lie on his tongue.

"Looks like she tore you up pretty good."

"Interesting analogy," he murmured and drained his glass.

"Look, sweetie, you can't let women get under your skin. Most of us aren't worth our spit, the trouble, or a broken heart. Singer comin' up. Real pretty girl with a nice voice. I'll watch your glass, 'kay, sweetie?" When he failed to offer an answer, she shook her head and headed back to the bar. You could never tell about some men.

The entrance of a woman carrying a guitar thankfully diverted his attention from the waitress and her strange questions. The woman, younger than the waitress, pulled a bar stool under one of the overhead lights and settled the guitar on her lap. Then she looked up and smiled. His agile mind cataloged the new addition to the darkened environment. Long dark hair caught in a messy braid, with tendrils of hair floating over her cheekbones and accentuating her pale skin. The soap-clean scent of her drifted to him. Between them lay five tables, twenty chairs, and a man and woman sitting shoulder to shoulder. Except for the waitress, the couple, and the bartender, there was no one else in the room.

When a pair of bright green eyes discovered him in the shadows, he unconsciously straightened. Another glass of beer appeared at his hand, and he drained it. 

"Hello, my name is River. This is one of my personal favorites. She spent a moment strumming the instrument. Tuned to her satisfaction, she began to play. Master Chief watched, fascinated by the magic of her hands, as she brought the melody to life and began to sing. The words fell from her pretty face like...like the promise of a treat or the anticipation of something familiar or pleasant. He had no idea what exactly. When she spoke, a sense of recognition flickered to life. Her fingers moved over the strings.

"I give him all my love

That's all I do

And if you saw my love

You'd love him, too

I love him

He gives me everything

And tenderly

The kiss my lover brings

He brings to me

And I love him

A love like ours

Could never die

As long as I

Have you near me."

The soldier shook his head when a wave of heat flooded his chest and sent unwanted emotions lighting his gut on fire. His fists clenched as his and feet prickled and chilled. Instead of giving in to the—what was this, anyway? Fear? Anxiety? He grabbed for the empty glass. The soldier set the glass down on the table with a thump loud enough to gain the waitress and the singer's attention. His eyes darted around the shadowed room, and something hard and foul-tasting rose in his throat. How could words and a melody inflict unwanted emotion? Liquid pain froze his joints, and clutched his throat. She was killing him.

_Stop singing. Stop now._

He had no business here in this public place. Large hands pushed on the table until he was on his feet. The singer paused, watching him, her fingers stilled the strings. The soldier shook his head at her; she nodded and continued the song. The final chords drifted away, following him to the exit.

The waitress caught up to him at the door.

"I—money on the table." The soldier forced the words out over the knot of emotions. If he opened his mouth again, the dark mass would escape and expose him for the failure he was. The stench of her cheap perfume gagged him while the waitress waited patiently at his side. What did she want from him? Some emotional display so she could comfort him? A flicker of rage tore through him. Comfort? From a woman? Disgust choked him. He was a Spartan.

Outside the club, the muted lights of the base allowed him to sink into the shadows. The night closed in. Clean. Dark. Safe. The stars were something he knew well. 

A guitar appeared in his line of vision and leaned itself against the wall. Then a hand landed on his arm. He focused on the long tapered fingers resting lightly on his bare forearm. His skin prickled.

"I tend to pick sad songs. Bad habit. Will you come back inside and let me buy you a drink?"

The soldier shook his head and extricated himself from the hand.

"Uh, it's okay. The waitress went back inside."

The soldier raised his head. All around him, sailors and marines went about their Saturday night activities. Couples walked hand in hand. Lights from the pizza restaurant flickered in garish letters. Music echoed from barracks windows, and friends shouted to one another across the narrow streets.

"I hate that place anyway. How about a walk?"

* * *

"And I love her"

Album: A Hard Day's Night (1964)

Songwriters: John Lennon / Paul McCartney

And I Love Her lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Tratore.


End file.
